


What we may be

by ImprobablePirate



Category: SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Burning things, Gen, Support Group, also there's a punk band made of Shakespearean ladies, also there's weird shipping, and swearing that lessens as we go on, attempted and successful, because why not, pregnancy trouble mention, that sprung up on me oops, these things are unimportant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobablePirate/pseuds/ImprobablePirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We know who we are but not what we may be." - Ophelia</p>
<p>So there's this support group for tragically dead Shakespearean women that Ophelia stumbles into which is also band practice. For theaternerd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What we may be

Ophelia surfaced three days later, lying on her side in a bed she didn’t recognise. Her hands felt cold and her face numb. Then she remembered the person who couldn’t possibly be a real lumberjack picking her up and carrying her, and the crying. She felt mildly surprised - the surprise itself was strong but so far away it belonged to someone else, someone who hadn’t wept themselves to exhaustion while being carried like sick child in enormous arms of red plaid. The old Ophelia would have been surprised and mortified to depend on the kindness of strangers, but the new one (or maybe the old was new and she, now, was the wrung-out leftover of that girl) knew it was better than putting up with the cruel kindness of loved ones.

But she did need to tell them she was okay.

She crawled out from under the bedclothes to find her phone then crawled back to dial the number of the only person she wanted to talk to.

“Horatio?” she said when the call was picked up. “I’ve really fucked up this time. Seriously, really. Oh fuck.”

There was silence at the other end and it wound up her tongue like a clockwork toy.

“Were you there? I think you were there - so you already know what I did. Where did I get flowers from? Please tell me I didn’t give them to his mother, and I didn’t sing. Please tell me that.” But she didn’t dare leave him space to tell her anything. “I’m better now. I feel like I can breathe again. I keep saying ‘I’ like I’m the most important person. How are you? Did I scare you? How many people are worrying? I didn’t mean to make anyone worry, but I’m not coming back yet. I made up my mind I’m not coming back until I’ve sorted things out better. How worried is his mum? Tell her I’m not pregnant. I’m not pregnant now.”

She listened to the silence.

“Horatio?”

“Listen, don’t freak out,” said a voice, higher-pitched than Horatio’s and crossed with concern and soothing.

“Who the hell are you?” she yelped and dropped the phone all of half an inch onto the mattress.

As she tried to focus her eyes close enough to find the end-call button, the voice interrupted her. “Wait, please. It’s okay. You sound like you need someone to talk to, and I know a group of people who are really good at talking.”

 

\-----------------

 

Desdemona was 5’3” with a stubborn chin and an inability to keep long sleeves covering her wrists. She’d pull them down but half a minute later she’d be pushing them up to her elbows again like she’d learnt keep herself prepared to deal with all the hot messes of the world.

She met Ophelia outside the Clubs and Socs building. Ophelia had been watching her from a window seat in the uni library across the street for ten minutes. She would stop every female who walked past the door to ask them probably for their name then let them go with a smile. Ophelia had been tossing up whether to show and the polite tenacity decided her.

“Welcome to the support group,” Desdemona said as she ushered Ophelia through the door of a room on the second floor that was haunted by the smell of $3 lunches put on by the Hare Krishnas.

A woman, twenty-something with a defiant peroxide-blonde quiff and sneering mouth, scoffed from the low chair she was lounging in. “It’s not a support group; it’s band practice.”

And there were two guitars and amps, microphones, and a drum kit set up in the middle of the room, and three other women fiddling with them. One was stooped over a low-slung guitar, short silk-black hair falling into her kohl-rimmed eyes as she focussed on tuning. Ophelia had never listened to punk but she was pretty sure the guitarist was the walking embodiment of the genre. On drums was a girl who looked more emo than punk but also like she was trying her best so no one should judge her. She wore a purple streak in her brown hair that shouted fresh-minted rebellion. The woman with a bass guitar balanced on her hip yawned. The rips in her stovepipe blue jeans looked like she might have paid a designer extra for the privilege, and her hair was wrapped in a headscarf the colours of a fantasy lagoon that matched her eyeshadow glitter-green as beetle shells.

“Then what are you doing here, Mac?” Desdemona asked the lounging one.

“Enjoying the view.”

“And failing to deliver in return,” the bassist yawned once more.

“It is a support group,” Desdemona told Ophelia again, doggedly.

The last occupant of the room had come to Desdemona’s side as soon as they had entered, and now put a hand on her shoulder to squeeze it gently. “It’s also a band practice for people whose egos are too fragile to accept a support group.” The woman stared down Mac then smiled at Ophelia. “Name’s Emilia. The others are Mac, Portia, Cleo with the bass, and Juliet’s our baby. What did you do to get Dee gathering you to her bosom like a lost chick?”

 

 

\-----------------

 

_“Let’s talk men.”_

_There was a sudden shift in alertness around the circle. Like the preliminaries had been dealt with and now they were down to the real business._

_“This is not supposed to be a man-bashing club,” Desdemona said, lips compressed in a thin line of exasperated repetition._

_“It’s the funnest part,” Mac said, settling insolently lower in her seat._

_“I don’t like it either,” Juliet piped up. “I still like boys.”_

_“Boys are fine,” Cleo drawled. “Though your high school crush did go south amazingly quickly. We’re talking about men, however. Boys are beneath my notice.”_

_“Who isn’t, princess?” Mac asked._

_“I’ll let you know when I find someone,” she replied with a smile that dazzled and left one blinded to the next attack._

__  
\----------------- __  


 

“Hey! Ophelia, isn’t it?”

Ophelia turned at the voice calling to her across the Link. Juliet waved from the line for Cafe Albany, dithering half in and out of it not wanting to lose her place amongst the over-caffeinated students. Ophelia took pity and changed direction, more than happy to avoid starting her poetry essay.

“Hey, I thought it was you,” Juliet said. “What are you up to? Do you want something?” The individual in the line behind her groaned in physical pain, and she drew herself up to snark back but deflated just as quickly. The rebellion was still very fresh then - not that Ophelia was one to judge.

“I’ve got some time,” Ophelia answered. “Just avoiding an assignment.”

“I feel you.” Juliet smiled, and asked her about it, conversation rolling along as she bought and waited for their drinks. “Where’s your place to write?” she said once she had one cardboard cup in hand, passing over the other.

“Celebrity squares.”

“Like the top ones?”

“No, just somewhere in the middle.”

Juliet shuddered. “Can’t stand them - they’re so dark and little, I get claustrophobic. Bad memories, eh? I like top floor near the AV section.”

“So freezing cold and people wandering all over the place?”

Juliet grinned as she tried to suck the melted marshmallow in her hot chocolate through the hole in the lid of the takeaway cup. It left tiny strings of pastel pink clinging to her lips. “I like people. I never really got to talk to them first time round - I was pretty sheltered - so I’m making up for it now.”

That was evident. Even Ophelia, she of the tied tongue and battered confidence, found it easy to talk to her since Juliet was happy to carry a conversation herself, wandering all over the place from topic to topic so Ophelia could find something to say every so often.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Ophelia accidentally asked when they’d been sitting on the deceptively-hard red couches lining the Link for two hours. “I mean, I’m pretty screwed up.”

“We’re all screwed up at band practice,” Juliet said, nodding sagely. “Otherwise we wouldn’t need a support group.” She tipped her head to one side. “Well, that and Emilia’s bribing the others to come so Dee’s feelings don’t get hurt.”

 

\-----------------

 

Over the next days then weeks, Ophelia and Juliet kept meeting up. Unintentionally at first, just as they spotted each other moving between lectures or in the line for Franks, but eventually it became a standing lunch date and an occasional beer at Refuel’s Wednesday pint nights. If they were feeling particularly flattened by a day, they’d text the other and demand an afternoon bowl of chips and shared cider at Eureka.

It was on one of these days, when Ophelia had texted Juliet because Horatio had texted her how she was doing and she had found Juliet knew just how to phrase things so that the recipient wouldn’t reply even more worried about how she was really doing. And because Ophelia had initiated it meant they were following her rules about dunking chips in the sauces and there was no messy infiltration of tomato sauce in the aioli.

Juliet picked another long skinny chip, dipped on end in red, the other in white, then folded the chip in half so they came together and popped it in her mouth. She continued staring at Ophelia as she chewed.

Eventually she said, “You know what we need to do? We need to burn something.”

Ophelia’s hand started and sent a couple of chips skittering over the table top. She looked around to check who had heard but the front of the restaurant was sparsely populated. “What?” she squeaked.

“Burning’s good for the soul. Not, like, in the creepy sixteenth-century witch burning sense. In the ‘you’re wound tighter than a straight boy’s butthole and mindless destruction would be cathartic’ sense.”

“I can’t do that!”

“Sure you can.”Juliet pushed the cider pint over to her. Because alcohol would make the situation so much better. “Little accelerant, couple of matches, something satisfyingly large to send up in flames.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“More ridiculous than going swimming with your clothes on?”

Ophelia scowled at her friend reproachfully and took a large draught of cider. She opened her mouth to explain her position clearly.

“There is no way we are going to do it because to get something satisfyingly large we’d need more than two people.”

Fuck.

Juliet fixed herself another sauce-laden chip reflectively. “You’re right. I know just who to ask.”

 

\-----------------

 

_“Who is Cassius?” Ophelia asked._

_“My boyfriend’s boyfriend, and sometimes he was my boyfriend too.”_

_Desdemona made a noise that might have been a scoff._

_“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Portia said mildly._

_“Not for the whole world.” There was something serious and heavier beneath Desdemona’s words that Ophelia couldn’t quite catch._

_“They’re not all jealous,” Portia rejoined, following some unspoken conversation._

_“And don’t judge others by your own mistakes,” Mac added. Ophelia found her surprisingly easy to read - disappointed in what life had portioned for her and making up for it with a bad attitude. Her candour of character might have been admirable if she weren’t so disagreeable._

 

\-----------------

 

Portia blinked once, slowly.

Ophelia’s stomach sank. Saying the plan out loud had made it sound even more stupid than it already had and this was Portia they were talking to. Portia of the aristocratic cheekbones and aura of legitimate too-cool-for-school-ness and perfect hair

“I’m in,” she said. “I’ll protect this conspiracy to the death - and never, ever tell Desdemona unless we need her to bail us out of jail.”

“Could that happen?” Ophelia asked, eyes widening.

“Probably not at all,”Juliet said, slinging an arm around her shoulders though the shorter girl had to stand on tiptoes to reach. “I have a plan sorted- we’ll each buy the light-stuff-on-fire stuff separately so as not to arouse suspicion and meet back here 6.30. We just need something to burn.”

“A couch.” Portia reached for her leather jacket. “It’s a little late in the season but we’re on Castle St, no one will notice. Much.” She crossed the room and banged on an interior door. “Cleo, we need you.”

The door opened and Cleo leaned against the frame, springy brown hair pulled back into a hasty bun. “Everyone needs me - be more specific.”

There was a snort from inside the room. Under Cleo’s arm, Mac was slouched grumpily on the bed within. Opelia hastily averted her eyes before Mac noticed.

“There’s a plot to burn things in a rage of passion,” Portia said.

“That’s not-” Ophelia began.

“Why didn’t you say sooner. That’s my speciality. Grumpy, let’s go,” Cleo tossed over her shoulder.

 

\-----------------

 

“Okay. Matches, check. Accelerant?” Juliet asked

“Meths is okay? I couldn’t get petrol - it’s super expensive right now.”

“Portia, do you think meths is okay?”

“Am I the expert on burning things, Jules?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Yes, meths is fine.”

“Alright. And couch, check. Where do we put it?”

“I’ve observed in the middle of the street,” Cleo said, “but can’t we wait until it’s fully dark? It’ll be more dramatic, and I’m le tired.”

“Feeling worn out, princess?”

“Was that boasting, Mac? I could say many things, but I’ll refrain.”

“Well grateful. Come on, we’ve got the stuff, we’ve got the street clear. Let’s get on with this.

“I’m-” Ophelia swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I can…”

“We got you a _couch_. It was heavy. Man up.”

“Don’t tell her to ‘man up’, Mac - that’s sexist and rude.”

“She’s wimping out, little Miss Juliet, I’ll tell her what I like.”

“You need support group so much your brains are practically coming out your ears!”

“Alright, chill.” Portia kneaded the base of her spine. “Can we at least move the couch so it’s not incriminating our front yard?”

“Like move it into the neighbours’? The ones on the right were playing music obnoxiously loudly last night.”

“Won’t that just make us more suspicious, Port?”

“It’s middle of studentville. We could be just giving it away.”

“Alright. Everyone lift on three. One. Two. Three!”

“Steady, _steady_. Mac stop trying to hustle us over.”

“You lot are weak.”

“Shit, what was that noise?!”

“Don’t let your end down!”

“Pick it up! Pick it up!”

“Someone is coming, we’ve got to get out of here!”

“Not on the bush!”

“Just dump it!

“Ow, that was my foot!”

“ _C’mon_ , hurry up!”

“Where’s it even coming from?”

“Did you get the meths?”

“What?”

“Tell me you remembered the-”

“Fuck.”

 

\-----------------

 

_“The trouble with men-” Cleo waved a hand at Juliet, “-your boys too. The trouble with them is that one can’t rely on them. Put them in a high pressure situation and they will fall to pieces. Whereas your lady friends, they are the ones who will get things done  without asking stupid questions.” She considered this proclamation for a moment, then nodded decisively. “I would be the first to admit not to understand why I am always surprised a man has let me down.”_

_“See, if you’d just picked a man you already knew was a bastard,” Emilia said, “then you wouldn’t be surprised. Hurt, maybe, but at least you have the knowledge that you called it to keep you warm at night.”_

_“She did pick a guy who destroyed the reputation of an honourable man.”_

_“Portia, we talked about that,” Cleo said, and Portia shrugged._

_“Yeah, but she didn’t pick a guy who convinced her to betray her precious lady friends.” Something there again that Ophelia couldn’t quite figure out all the pieces of, as Emilia’s eyes slid to Desdemona._

_“What you do isn’t as important as what you try to do to fix it. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always forgiveness. For others and ourselves.” Desdemona’s tone began gentle as she held Emilia’s hand but turned a touch stern as she looked at the others in the circle. “And we will support each other in these endeavours.”_

 

\-----------------

 

Ophelia held the dialing phone to her ear and tried not to feel hard done by that she was the one who had to make the call while the others, who had really started the whole thing, got to sit around in a tense circle on Portia and Cleo’s sparse living room furniture watching her.

“Hello, this is Desdemona speaking.”

“Um, hi.” Ophelia paused and Juliet waved her hands at her, go on, go on. “Um, see the thing is, um, we might have been trying to do a thing.”

“We were trying to support each other in our endeavours!” Mac called and Cleo threw a cushion at her.

“But actually we were trying to be supportive. Tell her we were trying to be supportive,” Juliet said.

“Like a support group.”

“Mac, shut up!”

“And things got a little, um, out of hand, maybe,” Ophelia continued. “Uh, Desdmona?”

“This is Emilia. You’re on speakerphone, and Dee decided to continue making us dinner. She might not be talking to you.”

“She’s not talking to us,” Ophelia told the room. “Emilia’s put us on speakerphone.”

“Then turn on the speaker here too,” Cleo said. “We will not be ignored, particularly when we were only doing what she told us to.”

“I’m fairly certain Dee never intended us to burn a couch.” Portia smiled faintly.

“You _what_?” Emilia’s voice echoed tinnily.

“Okay, it’s not as bad as it seems.” Juliet pulled the phone out of Ophelia’s hand and placed it on the coffee table in front of her. “You see, I thought Ophelia was bottling up all her emotions and that she should let them out. And burning something definitely would have done that, right?”

“Is that why we were doing it?”

“Mac, shut up!”

“Ophelia, do you think burning something would help?” Emilia asked.  
“Um.” Ophelia looked at all the expectant faces around her. “Yeah? At first, like, right up until we were standing on the front lawn with the couch and a bottle of meths.”

“Alright.” It was Desdemona’s voice again. Calm enough but with an undercurrent of pissed off and a whole lot of command. “What you are going to do is retrieve the meths, get matches, and tomorrow night you all will come to our place with food for dinner. We’ll expect you at 6.”

 

\-----------------

 

They had barbecued lamb sausages and falafel patties on toasted sourdough buns. Cleo had brought couscous salad, Mac a bottle of whisky she said was as good as food. There was too much cheese and crackers and dips that had an expiry date the next day. They sat outside, huddled under blankets, a bar heater glowing above them and the melody of Portia’s acoustic guitar wrapping around them. They feasted like queens.

On the concrete patio, out under the stars was a well-contained but not really very small bonfire, on which sat prominently an effigy. Ophelia thought maybe it was a Guy but it was months til November and where would she have got one since yesterday. It must have been made specially.

“I thought we weren’t a man-bashing club,” Ophelia said, standing near to where Desdemona and Emilia perched on a low wall, casually close.

Desdemona raised her chin as she gazed into the flames. Ophelia could imagine her commanding armies. “The shape is entirely coincidental.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oops, there's also kind of a couple of fanmixes that kind of go with this. They'll exist in public soon.


End file.
